A Mad Existence Still Needs Payment
by SnowStormSkies
Summary: Mycroft sends the first payment; and when it crash lands into John Watson's confused little world, he asks himself "Is it all worth it?" Could be seen somewhat as a sequel to my other Sherlock fic, 'Weighing In'. Set during 1x03. No pairings.


**Title: **A Mad Existence Still Needs Payment**  
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**Author: **SnowStormSkies

**Universe: **Sherlock**  
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**Theme/Topic: **

**Rating: **M - some mentions of drug use, lots of swearing, and plenty of reflections on bad things.

**Characters: **John Watson, with references to Sherlock, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.

**Warnings/Spoilers: **Only for a Study in Pink. **  
**

**Word Count: **1651 words.

**Time: **Only about half an hour to actually write it but about four days of editing and expanding.

**Summary: **Mycroft sends the first payment; and when it crash lands into John's confused little world, he asks himself "Is it all worth it?" Could be seen somewhat as a sequel to my other Sherlock fic, _'Weighing In'_.**  
**

**Dedication: **To the people at the BBC - once again, you have done well.

**A/N: **I haven't got a lot to say really. Got another one of these brewing, and several more in different fandoms. I really just wanted to experiment with a different perspective, and get inside John Watson's head - I think people either assign him as dull, boring and hopeless or a Sherlock in disguise. I dunno, I just feel like it's not something that's coming across in the fandom people.

**Distribution: **Nyet. Not for you. Me. And my Livejournal. Link to be posted later.

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**A Mad Existence Still Needs Payment**

**...**

**.  
**

It's four days after the end of the Study in Pink case, and he's just finished posting the last section onto his blog when the envelope arrives onto the door mat.

He doesn't notice it as he sprints out of the house, chasing after the mad hatter in a scarf and loafers, slamming the door behind him and causing tourists to shake their heads in laughter at the Crazy Brits as **they** make their stupid touristy way along a short cut to the city centre where they'll stare at people and shops and cars and not see the writhing, seething battlefield all around them.

Sherlock is off on another of his mad dashes around London, and it's John's duty to follow in the messy trail that is left behind by the man – ruptured egos, half finished sentences and strange comments to Detective Inspectors are the least of what he is expected to clear up.

By the time he notices it again, it's ten past eleven, and Sherlock steps right over it, one size ten almost landing on it in the graceful_notgraceful _way the other man always seems to possess before he lurches up the stairs, shouting for a cup of tea from their landlady who does a pretty good job of being their housekeeper but keep claiming that she isn't but will always wait up long into the night, and make tea and snacks when they haven't been to the supermarket in ten days because of a case and all that's left is rotten pickled onions in a jar and tomato sauce in a half empty bottle, alongside a frozen head slowly defrosting in the fridge and a pair of eyes in the microwave.

There's no address on the envelope, and the first thing he thinks of is "Hand delivered?" He knows he been spending too much time around Sherlock when he's deducting on an envelope. It's been a long night, running around Scotland Yard, bullying detectives and admin staff for evidence and access and tea and coffee (_"Black, two sugars/White, one please,"_) and he's too tired to consider a mysterious envelope now. He puts it into one worn pocket and unbuttons his coat with a hand that's frighteningly steady even in the aftermath of a gun fight where he was the only one holding a real gun.

All John Watson wants is _tea_.

Tea and a hot shower, and his bed, in that order.

It's twenty to one in the morning, by the time he gets out of the shower and has his mug of tea (it's the second one tonight – the first Sherlock made and almost blew up the kettle – who knew hydrochloric acid didn't make for a good reaction in the kettle?) when he remembers the envelope and he drags himself off the doorframe and over to the bed like the wounded soldier he still is inside and goddamn _Sherlock_ and his fucking "_psychosomatic limp_," and fuck the "_you have trust issues_," therapist as well.

His jacket, still cold from the air outside, opens its pocket to him, like a wound in the black flesh, and he turns away and feels blindly into the open wound like a blind man searching for life inside a corpse. Sweat slickened satiny inside embraces him like too cold, too dead flesh again and it's so close he can smell cordite and twenty two men sweating in a land of sand and dead people and _bombs_ and _hate_ – but tonight it came too close to that exact same scenario in the mad mad hatter's coat and John had to be the mad mad Alice who saved his mad mad hatter.

He drags his mind from Afghanistan and worlds and dreams he doesn't care to remember and tries to focus on the envelope in his hands _(no, they're not shaking, because __**fuck**__ it, it's adrenaline all over again, and fuck therapy, this is what he needs, this excitement, this adrenaline high, this return to life on the edge. How sick is he now, Doc Freud?)_

The calligraphy is neat, swooping curves, and he feels like a boy again in his grandmother's house, reading her letters while they cart away her stuff for burial and burning and he's just a boy again now, playing with fire, and nicotine-high riding consulting detectives and pretty dead women in pink and cabbies with pills and murder on the brain (he's read the preliminary report, and he really didn't have murder on the brain – it was a healthy, whole brain and all the explanations come tumbling down like a pack of cards – no death no _dying_ no explanation – _wrong, Sherlock shouts, there's something wrong here_ and John is washing his hands in a bathroom still stuck between shooting an innocent man and a murderer and he's not entirely sure where the line blurs between the two) and it's green ink, not black bleeding into the thick paper.

That's different, he thinks to himself, and he's inordinately proud of himself for not having a dangerous thought for thirty whole seconds now.

The envelope is good quality, and when he peels up the flap, inside is more good quality paper and it should be impossible but somehow this paper – thick and soft off-white – makes him feel inferior in his five day old towel and threadbare favourite slippers; relics from a life he can't quite remember in waking moments.

He pulls out the first bit of paper and when he unfolds, he gets an overwhelming sense of money; say what you like about deductions and poor people and money, but they really can smell when things are way beyond their budget.

"_**Keep him safe and there will be more to come."**_

One eyebrow rises as he pulls out and turns over the other piece of paper, and his other eyebrow rises to meet its counterpart. 'Five thousand," swims across his vision and it hurts so _good_ – after so many red stamps and OVERDUEs and LATE PAYMENT, it feels like a welcome punch to the gut (and when did you ever have that, hmm?).

This money would pay rent for six months, food, his therapist and even maybe a new bed, if he's so inclined. He can get new shoes, and maybe even a winter coat – a proper one, with some gloves as well. He's fallen so far that a coat and gloves and food is a luxury now, not a necessity. He smiles with one side of his face, his scorn reflecting on the other as he thinks about how Harry would laugh at him now, all three of him while he holds back her hair from the spews of laughter and vomit and prays this isn't alcohol poisoning again and wishes he wasn't fifteen, a slave to his education and a target for Harry's rage, her sadness and tears and her vomit and desperation to be loved and her clawing needy touches, and her begging to be held into the night so the nightmares won't come.

On the one hand, John wants to refuse it; his fingers are tightly gripping the top of it, and he's braced to rip apart this **blessing**curse_somethinghedoesn'tunderstand_. He's a man now, not a child and he's used to paying his way, earning the money he needs. He can find a job somehow, pay his rent, get shot of the bills by begging for clemency and he's a fucking _war hero_, he should be able to survive on his own without charity from a man he barely met and will never understand while he lives with the strangest consulting detective in the world who talks to a skull, uses a microwave to boil eyeballs and thinks a communal fridge means anything that will fit in is acceptable.

He can make his own way in life – he's managed it so far, after all.

On the other hand, he figures it's far less than what is owed him for what's he done, payment for services rendered – running around London all hours of the night, shooting a man, being kidnapped by a mysterious woman who invents names and an a older brother who likes warehouses and manipulating the security systems of the London Metropolitan police, and having his room raided in the process of a phoney drugs bust. (Or is it a real bust? - _"It stops being pretend when we find something..."_ He's still wrapping his mind around that one.)

In the end, he cashes it the next day, figuring he's owed the world so he might as well take it as it comes – piecemeal though it might be. The next time he looks, the five grand looks very nice after a day spent wandering around Barts waiting for Sherlock to finish applying himself to a case, before a hasty shovelled down sandwich and a brief car trip, which is closely followed by wading knee deep into a pond to mark the results of decomposition of the human head that used to be defrosting in his fridge as one of Sherlock's experiments.

Such is the life of John Watson.

This mad mad Alice could get used to this mad mad life, with his mad mad hatter without a hat.

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* * *

_Okay, yes once again I have been sidetracked by something else, which isn't what I promised. This time, it's the phenomenal series that is Sherlock by the BBC with Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch. I mean, come on – it's fantastic! Plenty of action, quite a bit of good slash undertones but not OMG SHOVE IT IN UR FACE. There's pleny of good characters (even if the second episode was a little bit crappy)._

_Anyway, before I forget, along with this one, I have one other Sherlock one, a Thunderbirds one, two NCIS ones brewing, a Star Trek (2009) and even some stuff on Annie._

_Goddamnit, it's official. I am a fandom whore - I cannot stay with one fandom to save my life. _


End file.
